Tag Archives: coping

Throw It Back

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I used to fret and worry about my relationship with alcohol. What did it mean? Is the drinking itself bad or is it the reason behind the drinking the really bad part? Maybe it was a combination of both. Next month I’ll turn 37 years old and quickly plowing myself into my 40’s. So what preciousness is to save that I’m holding onto?

Americans have a really funny way of dealing with alcohol. We used to love it, then we hated it, then we prohibited it completely and all the while our relationship and use of the substance has not changed. I notice this a lot when I go to purchase alcohol from shops, especially here in Michigan. People are so, I suppose the emotion they must feel is embarrassment, because the shops all reflexively wrap bottles of alcohol in brown paper wrappers. Like it’s shameful or embarrassing to be seen in polite society with a bottle of Jack Daniels, Jamesons, or Captain Morgan. Wine never really got the sharp end of the stick, and neither really did beer. Both of those spirits are too weak to be of mention. You’ll go to the bathroom a lot before you’ll feel much in the way of an effect from those particular drinks. It’s the harder liquors that surprise me. First off, Michigan rigidly controls the price of spirits right down to what retailers are allowed to sell the spirits for. It doesn’t matter who sells what, they all get their prices out of this dog-eared pale-blue booklet that the state hands them. I sometimes wonder why the state of Michigan thinks it’s the sole arbiter of the price and availability of spirits in their state borders? As if they could control their citizenry with laws. Hah. But there it is, artificial price fixing for no good reason. A 750ml bottle of Jameson’s Whiskey is $25 in Michigan and $17 in Illinois. The only reason I’d buy liquor in Michigan is out of laziness.

And as it turns out, my favorite liquors are Jamesons, what a shocker, and as funny as it seems, the low-brow rums, Bacardi’s Oakheart and Newfoundland’s Screech. I don’t really care for the specialty long-aged rums and apparently I prefer just the english-speaking rums of the world, as the rest aren’t very much to my liking. But really where it’s at is my relationship to a bottle of Jamesons.

What is my relationship to alcohol? I drink liberally and I become intoxicated and I enjoy myself. I do not make a mess of myself by drinking beyond my personal limit, nor do I operate any machinery while under the influence. That last bit is a lie, of course, as machinery includes my iPhone and my computer, so a few bouts of drunk twittering won’t send me to jail. I’ve never operated a motor vehicle, and almost always I’m the designated driver because, well, lets face it, I have control and money issues. So back to drinking. It’s a joy. It brings warmth and happiness into my life. Not that my life was bereft of warmth and happiness before, but while intoxicated it makes many things feel better. Many things are easier to cope with. I wear my emotions on my sleeve and I share my feelings, some would say, too readily. There was a humorous picture of a boy stating what I often times find myself thinking, especially sober, and that is “We’re all thinking it, I just said it.” So we get down to the reasons why I drink.

I like to drink because it feels good. I like to drink because it tastes good. Wine is principally what I’m getting at, as there is a universe of delicious flavors in wine and more people should go exploring to see what they like. Beer? When I was a kid and very sensitive to bitters, beer was awful. As I age however, beer has become like water. It’s a drink with food, it makes you belch, and makes you have to see a man about a horse quite often. In many ways, beer and wine are somewhat okay ways to replace water, especially if you question the quality of water. I personally have never felt that the water where I live is good for me. Now, before people get really worked up, the gentle reader should be aware that I was raised on the worlds best water. The city supply of Syracuse, New York. That water is drawn from Skaneateles Lake and is some of the best tasting water on the planet. I am sorry that more people don’t understand just how wonderful it is to walk up to the tap in your house, turn it on and be able to drink what comes out without even a single iota of worry, and enjoying the taste, which is the way water should taste. It should not taste like a chlorinated fish bowl. So the water is a big reason for the more simpler spirits. But that doesn’t touch on the stronger ones. Here again I like the taste, or perhaps, in the case of Jamesons, I’m genetically predisposed to enjoy the taste, I do sometimes wonder about that. I also enjoy the feeling it gives me, and then, and what everyone really wants to know, is the social aspects to my alcoholism.

I drink because Hell is other people. This is very general and expansive and it’s not really meant to hurt others feelings, but lets face it, unless I’m in love with you or we are exceptionally close, Sartre’s statement about Hell being other people eventually finds it’s mark. I can endure a lot of things from people, especially when I have no other choice. I can be whatever I need to be to endure the situation. That’s the blessing that comes with a monumentally strong sense of self-monitoring. In work meetings I can be calm and reserved and measured, that sort of thing. Generally however I can’t stand humanity. In all the ways we are unique and special and loving, that’s got nothing to do with it. It’s the baser things that bother me, the odd behaviors, the many varied ways we abuse each other and in many ways, so effortlessly and lets face it, callously. It can range from being a real prat to being incidentally and nebulously a horrible human being. So what comes of all these unpleasant feelings? Being exposed to people who chew too loudly, snort, wheeze, moan, whine, or in one way or another do whatever they can to be as awful to others as they can, where is there to go? Where can anyone go if they are trapped in that situation? I am forever thankful for alcohol. “Please pass the wine” is a far more pleasant thing to say than dragging out (or dragging up) the varied unpleasantnesses that surround some social situations. I find that it’s almost always more preferable to prepend potentially unpleasant social interactions with a precautionary buffer of alcohol in my system. If I am nursing a beer or a glass of wine, of throwing back shots of Jamesons, I can eventually reach a place where the things that upset me no longer really bother me, and in a way, alcohol makes everything better. So yes, I drink, at least as a partial reason, to cope with the people in my life. I am not going to point fingers at who makes me drink, that would just be courting disaster, but in a general sense, Hell is other people.

So to get back to the beginning, is it a problem? Should I be concerned? The answer is, I don’t give a damn. I’m not going to fret over what drinking means to me, I’m just going to enjoy my life and all the things in it and if I spend my time in a beer bottle or a bottle of Jamesons, then that’s where I want to be. For pleasure, for joy, for happiness, and to escape Hell, at least for a short while. Anything can be endured as long as there is a break to it, a stop, a discontinuity to horribleness. In many ways, alcohol is a blessing to endurance.

Life as a Spring, or Housecleaning.

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It’s not so much a post about the vagaries of housecleaning, which are rather dull, but instead the nature of the beast, which I envision as a shell-within-a-shell sisyphisian trudge. I have a plan, this plan goes hand-in-hand with my personal will towards simplification and forcing my house to bend to my designs. It is made of steps that have to be dealt with in a certain order for everything to make sense. You have to start somewhere and you need to cut out before you can reorganize.

Step 1: The Grace of Goodwill and/or the Salvation Army – This step is one of the biggest, but not the absolute biggest hurdles to my year-long plan for home order. The plan is to separate Fall/Winter wardrobes from Spring/Summer wardrobes and while selecting for that, also pitching clothes that no longer fit or are so surplus that I haven’t even thought of them in a year or more. This involves the purgation of all of our closets, which for a pair of gay men is as legendary as you imagine. There are 4 closet areas, the Walkin, Hobbiton, Hallway and Guest. All four have to be emptied and sorted, a pile heading to the charities and then the sorting of their seasonal appropriateness. The not-seasonal-now clothes will all eventually be stored in Hobbiton, as it is the largest closet I have ever seen in my life. Once the clothing is ordered properly we’ll have a clear bead on how much of Hobbiton was consumed and how much remains for secondary storage. Hobbiton is THAT BIG, and frankly speaking, I’ve never really looked very closely inside Hobbiton, so I imagine there are surprises lurking within, mayhap, even Hobbits.

Step 2: Organizing the Man Cave – Two gay men, a fully finished basement, and more electronics and gadgets than you can shake a stick at. This zone must be organized. DVD’s have to be sorted into alphabetical order and music has to be sorted into alphabetical order. The only variance to the sorting is the special thematic category of Horror/Thriller/Halloween movies, they will be on their own, sorted but segregated since they are the gory delight of every Samhain/Halloween celebration. The splatter must stand alone. 🙂 The music really ought to be digitized and the physical media obliterated, but that would be more trouble than it’s worth in the end.

Step 3: Organizing THE LIBRARY – I use all caps because the old master bedroom became THE LIBRARY. It’s where all our books are stored. Anyone who even is partially aware of Scott knows that his affection for books is beyond epic, beyond legend, it’s incredible. We don’t honor our Library nearly enough as we ought to and for this plan I can address some of it by alpha-sorting the entire structure. I need to dig deep into that room and purge off very old castaway technology and pitch much of what is my personal storage in that room. I haven’t seen it in a year, almost all of it, so keeping it is doing nothing for me, it has to go. The only thing that stays are the books, but for me personally, there are some books that will be landfill bound. Before we can address the Library we have to get our current lodger up and flying, so he can get his independence. Once that is done, the work on this room can commence.

In the end, of all these steps, our house will be more orderly and pleasant and I won’t have to feel awkward and bent about all these little nipping irritants, not being able to find the right clothes, the right movies, the right music or the right books to suit me. Also it would be nice to have a home again where I can sit where I please and do what I wish without having to contend with piles of drift-stuff that ended up malingering in corners. UP AND OUT. That’s the theme.

When will this grand plan be achieved? Maybe a year from now, maybe two. This simplification is vital and I can’t resist it any longer. All of this STUFF is stifling. When people mention this stuff, they sometimes use the word ‘trappings’ and that’s exactly what it is, stuff-based traps. I’m done with traps. Time to be simple.

Bedrock of Angels

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Helping the Havens family say goodbye and bury a pillar of their family has been a daunting, difficult, yet absolutely the only thing I could do for the past two weeks. In my small way, to help where I can, to be a comfort, to get things done. There was no question that I would be gladly driving all over creation (2400 miles), doing whatever was necessary, and being there for Scott and his family when droop turned to drop.

To me, it was to be something they could rely on, an emergency block of bedrock to absorb tears, to relieve pressure, to help where I can without getting in the way. “Bedrock” is vital for these past two weeks, as a metaphor, for all of us. Scott was there for his mother, I was there for Scott, and Angels were there – in the flesh – in so many ways. I feel it vital to name my Angels and to thank them publicly for their as-yet-unsung service.

I would like to thank these Angels:

  • To the lady at ISJ Hospital who played the Harp. You said you weren’t an Angel, but someone who plays the harp, unbidden, when it’s the perfect thing at the perfect moment, you had wings.
  • To the last Hospice nurse at ISJ, you did more for Dan than anyone in the hospital. I noticed your wings. Thank you.
  • To Chaplain Jacek Soroka at ISJ, your presence, your words, the comfort you brought and the raw serendipity of your service when we celebrated the life of Scott’s father, with the story of Lazarus was ineffable. We all noticed your wings. Bless you Chaplain, you helped restore even a ember of my faith, watching you help Scott’s family cope.
  • To Miah and Justin, you were my private Angels. You helped care for our family when we needed to help care for Scott’s family. You both have wings, whether you know it or not. What you did helped us do what we had to, to help Sandy and both the Havens and Lazarus families cope. There are not enough thanks, kisses, or hugs to match what you have done for us. I am proud to consider you family.
  • To Janet Ryan, you too are an Angel. I saw your wings when we learned of Danny’s last best practical joke. Your entire family, and you are an absolute godsend to Sandy, and both Scott and I know it, and we feel so deeply honored to have you in our family.
  • To Wendy at Regan Funeral Home in Queensbury, how you herded us cats and helped Sandy cope with Dan’s last final practical joke is way beyond the call of duty for anyone. For all that you did, and for Saturday morning in the parking lot, I see those wings.

There were many others as well, I’m sure, behind the scenes who did things unwitnessed. Whether or not people truly were Angels or had Angels hugging their backs, please know that our happy feelings extend to you as well, despite nobody seeing your good works.

Male Coping

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When something really horrible occurs everybody reacts and begins to cope with the situation. Everyone copes in their own ways. I have noticed that there are clear differences between the genders when it comes to coping. I’ve seen how women cope but I can only speak from my own experiences and how men cope.

It came to me tonight while talking with Scott over some drinks. Men cope by doing, Women cope by feeling. Not to say that either gender can’t cope like the others, Men can feel and Women can do, but in every situation I’ve been in it seems to follow the pattern above.

Men cope by doing. We fix things, we tend to things, we prepare. In many ways, men are like rescue dogs. We are very good in the thick of things with the practical angles but relatively retarded as a gender when it comes to simply feeling the situation out. Men would rather struggle, fight, act, or do, to cope. Men as rescue dogs goes further, if we go too long and we don’t rescue someone we seize with hopelessness and eventually just plod along seemingly desensitized to our surroundings. I have experienced that myself during the entire situation here in New York. I can’t DO anything, so I launch upon any situation that allows me to DO. I covet the little places where I can help, where I can do things to assuage pain, perform some needful action, do some task. Standing around crying has its place, but in almost any situation you’ll see a man retrieving tissues to give to his loved one – that’s an act of doing, how we cope when those we care about are suffering.

Today I was coping. Helping my family cope with the manifold complications that arose today. I met new family, extended family, and a member of that new family (pack?) had a problem with a bit of technology. I found myself acting without thinking, mindlessly responding. I popped out of my seat and offered to help fix the technological problem. I was playing out this theme of do’er, I was helping and that was my coping. It was an unusual feeling, I was bolt upright and swinging into action before I even really gave it any thought, it wasn’t something I had to weigh or even consider, it felt like a reflex. Someone had a problem that I could help with and up I went, reacting, doing, helping, fixing.

This has its uses, but it’s also a source of consternation and eventually conflict between the genders and even among ourselves. Men don’t feel. I like to pin the blame on the fact that in general, most men have very weak corpus callosums, while women tend to have bigger and more well-defined corpus callosums. This bit in the brain helps the two hemispheres communicate. The theory goes that the more nerve fibers between the hemispheres, the more overall cooperation between the hemispheres. Women can access and manipulate more of their emotional power because they have the hardware to do so, while men are running around, coping with the situation and coping with brains ill-suited to handling the highly integrative needs of a crisis. We can’t feel as well as women can, we have the emotions, but we can’t really ever do the same mental tricks that women can because the hardware wasn’t ever meant to actually do that. It gives me a cold comfort to know that my difficulty with expressing, harnessing, and controlling my emotions might be a purely mechanical matter. Instead of a comprehensive approach like women can achieve, men tend towards whichever their dominant hemisphere is. I am right-handed, therefore my dominant hemisphere is on the left. The left hemisphere specializes in mechanical things, matters of language and taking things apart and repair. I would bet money that when a male is stuffed in a fMRI scanner and forced into a highly stressful situation where coping is absolutely required the left side of their brains lights up like a christmas tree and the right side sparkles like blinking individual strands of christmas lights.

All this biology and psychology boils down to how we cope. Women want us to stop, to not do, to sit and cry and grieve and to feel with them. Rescue dogs want to find people, they don’t want to sit and take a moment, take in the totality of what happened and feel. Rescue dogs want to dig, tug, find people, do things.

I find myself giving advice and thinking about how we all react to stressful situations that demand coping. Males have to give women time to cope in their own way, and women need to understand that we, the rescue dogs, cope best by being able to act. I’ve found that once I understand my own gender-based deficiencies that understanding even stress between people who are attempting to cope is more clearly understood from my vantage point. Someday I may have enough mental fortitude to sit back and feel, but not really yet, I’m a boy, and quite firmly a rescue dog.